


testosterone boys and harlequin girls

by proprioception



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Masturbation, Trans Male Character, Trans Victor Zsasz, Transphobia, Vaginal Sex, deadnaming, lots and lots of masturbation, violence kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25519765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proprioception/pseuds/proprioception
Summary: Roman frowns at him. "Why did she call you Nicole?" Victor gives his boss an unimpressed look. "You get one guess," he drawls. He thinks it's his genuinely angry scowl that does it. There aren't a whole lot of things that truly piss Victor off, and most of them have to do with hurting Roman.
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz
Comments: 22
Kudos: 135





	testosterone boys and harlequin girls

**Author's Note:**

> please congratulate me on the excellent pun of this title
> 
> thanks to betas amlcth@twitter and mælibe <3

Look, it’s not Victor’s fault he’s hornier than a herd of goats. He was constantly horny before transitioning, T made it worse, and it never really got any better. He does what he can. 

And currently what he can do is hump his pillow to quick, messy completion every night before bed and every morning before his cup of coffee. And fuck himself on the dildo perennially suctioned to his shower wall whenever he is anywhere near it. And shove his hand down his pants at least once an evening leaning against the door of one of the Black Mask’s “single-occupant” bathrooms—two or three times if Roman’s being particularly slutty or if he bosses Victor around or if Victor fucking feels like it. (Roman must know by now, but it’s possible he just wildly overestimates how much coke Victor does.) His body’s got a quota, alright? 

And that’s on a boring day. If Victor kills or maims or even just threatens someone, it usually hijacks the rest of his day. No pun intended. 

One evening, early into the night, Roman waves him over to the bar where he stands with two women Victor doesn’t recognize and therefore distrusts. 

On this particular day, Victor has, by early dinnertime,

  1. procrastinated getting out of bed for an hour by jerking off until coming got irritatingly difficult,
  2. stormed off in the middle of one of Roman’s tantrums to rage-masturbate, and
  3. slunk into the bathroom after the resulting apologetic, physically affectionate Roman threw an arm around his shoulder and whispered in his goddamn ear.



If there is a celibate god, Victor should be positively bored to death of jerking off, but at least sated for the day. And yet, here he stands with most of a completely unsolicited hard-on, and he’s not even complaining.

“Victor,” Roman cries, his eyes crinkling. “Meet Sadina and India.” His whiskey sloshes at each of them in turn. He puts his arm possessively around India’s waist. The woman looks like she’s considering killing Roman for touching her, and Victor finds himself thinking similar thoughts.

Victor flashes his teeth at the two women in a brief, half-assed smile, not sure of the situation yet. At first glance he thinks the worst case scenario would be a black eye or two. These women don’t look like serious killers. They don’t look useless, but they look green. Both are hiding knives on them, and badly. They act like they think they’re dangerous, but Victor will believe that when he sees it. 

Roman and Sadina were already deep in conversation, and they circle each other like vultures who have forgotten their prey. It’s mostly good-natured shit-talk that sounds like an R-rated dictionary, but Roman always talks like that. Victor thinks he’s just thrilled to find someone who can match him in four-syllable words and verbal abuse. And of course it doesn’t hurt that she clearly wants to fuck him, or is doing a real good job of faking it. Victor has to try very hard not to scowl; Roman’s doing a real good job of faking his interest, too. 

India and Victor stare each other down silently for most of it, offering only sullen comments when their companion glares too long at them. Eventually the extroverts forget about their bodyguards, and edge closer until they’re practically on top of each other in the booth.

Victor’s infuriated and infuriatingly hard even before Roman leans in and starts murmuring things into her ear. Victor doesn’t know why Roman doesn’t just go ahead and bite it. (Kiss down her neck and maybe give her a hickey before she pulls him by the hair into a kiss.) (Fuck, he’s turned on.) Roman’s not very good at teasing when he wants the bait on his own hook. Maybe he doesn’t. Victor hopes he doesn’t. He’s about to bite through his lip.

Victor is starting to despair through a haze of lust that Roman and Sadina are just going to fuck right here in front of them when it happens. India has been staring single-mindedly at Victor this whole time, and Victor, while still alert and suspicious, has given up trying to figure out why. She’s either got resting bitch face or a grudge against men in general. (He can empathize with both.) All of a sudden, the woman’s eyes and stance widen. Victor snaps out of his perpetual slouch.

“Nicole!” she barks.

Victor’s heart stops.

Her mouth curls into a vicious smile at what Victor is sure is a stricken expression. “Nicole Zsasz, you fucking bitch!”

Victor’s vision goes high contrast and he has his bar brawl knife in hand before he knows it. “That’s not my _fucking_ name, you—”

India moves so fast he barely sees it. Victor’s throat stops working for a second and when it comes back online it _burns_. He doubles over coughing after a few staggering steps backward to regain his balance.

Victor forgets how to feel anything but rage. Adrenaline floods his system, an absurd reaction to being deadnamed but one that suits him just fine. Trying to silence him was a bad fucking move. Not disarming him before hitting him was a worse one. 

Before he can recover from the first blow, he’s on the ground, his lower back roaring with pain.

_Nicole Nicole Nicole_

“Fuck you,” he snarls, rolling sideways and to his feet before she can get another blow in. He crouches, brandishing the knife. “Call me that again,” he rasps. 

India just lunges at him and tries to roundhouse him. He ducks, barely. He vaguely remembers this woman from years and years ago, and of course she’s more vicious and capable than she was twenty years ago. He doesn’t remember her name, though. The fact that his deadname was the only thing this woman could remember about him feels like a splinter. Before she can get started on another barrage, Victor slashes at her with one hand and draws and throws another knife with the other. She snarls with contempt as the first knife misses her completely, but the second sprouts between her ribs below her right breast with a dull thunk. She staggers. Probably hit her liver, but possibly not lethal. Yet. 

“What have you done?” screams Sadina, but Victor’s already diving at India to smash the delicate little throwing knife deeper into her body. The hilt’s only a few inches long and barely more substantial than the handle of a butter knife. It goes in easy, with only a little resistance before Victor feels it _scrape_ past a rib with a sound like teeth grinding. And then it’s gone, vanished into her abdominal cavity with a slick, obscene noise. Blood dribbles out of the hole in weak spurts. 

Victor’s pulse roars through his body like a wind tunnel. The smell of blood hits him like pheromones and his heartbeat slams in his chest like it’s trying to ram its way out. It might even be distracting if this wasn’t more or less his body’s reaction to any kind of violence. It’s like his adrenaline and arousal wires are crossed, so that anything that triggers one triggers the other.

Sadina screams again, wordless and crescendoing, as India falls to the ground in slow motion. A gunshot cuts her off even as Victor draws another knife. He watches Sadina crumple to the floor beside her partner.

Roman’s face is contorted with rage (Victor sways with _want want want_ ) and he lowers his smoking gun, starting to pant. Mouth-breathing is usually Victor’s cue to start de-escalating, but Roman’s righteous anger subsides as quickly as it appeared. He steps delicately over both bodies to cup Victor’s face, examining him with anxious concern.

Victor’s eyes slide out of focus, his skin tingling at the sensations of leather and metal against his cheeks. He really fucking likes being the reason Roman needs calming down. His tongue flicks out to swipe at Roman’s bare wrist.

Roman clears his throat and releases Victor’s face. Victor looks up at him, but Roman’s face is carefully blank as he ushers Victor in the direction of the nearest booths. They’re empty. The whole club is almost empty, leaving only the big league criminals who think this kind of shit is foreplay. Victor didn’t notice when it cleared out.

“Fake fucking sisters,” Roman swears under his breath. “They get me every fucking time.” Victor chuckles weakly. Roman pushes him into the booth and hovers, fretting endearingly. He tips Victor’s chin up to eye his neck. “She fucking karate-chopped your fucking neck!” he exclaims, like maybe Victor didn’t notice.

Victor shrugs. “I didn’t get hurt, you didn’t get hurt, and I get a new mark. Seems like a win to me.”

Roman lets him go and frowns at him. “Why did she call you Nicole?”

Victor gives his boss an unimpressed look. “You get one guess,” he drawls. He thinks it’s his genuinely angry scowl that does it. There aren’t a whole lot of things that truly piss Victor off, and most of them have to do with hurting Roman. 

Roman’s eyes go wide with comprehension, and then scrunch with amused incredulity. “Your name was _Nicole?_ ” he laughs.

Victor glares up at him, but it feels good to hear Roman acknowledge how much it doesn’t fit him. “Fuck off,” he snarls. “I’ve permanently shut up every single bastard who’s called me that since I was fucking twenty.”

Roman shuts his mouth, though he looks more delighted than intimidated.

Victor nods at the bar. “Wanna buy me a drink?” he rasps. His throat won’t thank him for it, but he needs to dull the sting of that fucking name. 

Roman waves over eight tequila shots. Victor is generally more of an upper guy, and he’s kind of worried four shots will embarrass him, but he’s not about to be a pussy (ha, ha) after all that. 

Roman doesn’t wait for Victor to embarrass himself. He slams all four of his, one right after the other, in the time it takes Victor to choke down one. “How did you even know that bitch?” he asks, still grimacing. 

Victor stares balefully at the three remaining shots on the table. Alcohol is so _inefficient_. With molly, it’s over with after a swallow. Coke after two or three sniffs. Weed after just fucking breathing. 

He tosses back another shot and coughs. 

“We went to the same boxing gym. A long fucking time ago. Beat the shit out of each other, since we were about the same size and none of the big guys would take us seriously. Got carried away a couple times,” he admits with a shrug, “but she did too.”

“Do you have pictures?” Roman asks. 

“What?” Victor frowns. “Of us fighting?”

“No, of _Nicole_ ,” Roman says with evident delight, and Victor glares at the ceiling and sighs. “I can’t imagine you as a girl.”

“No, I don’t have fucking pictures,” Victor snaps. He does another shot. Not that he’d show Roman in a million years. He doesn’t even want to look at them himself. 

“Jesus, Victor, chill,” Roman sniffs.

Victor rolls his eyes, and takes the last shot as evasive action when Roman narrows his eyes at him. He can already feel the alcohol roasting him inside out. 

Roman slides his hand up Victor’s back and shakes him by the back of the neck. Even for Roman, it’s aggressive, even threatening. “Finally!” He grabs a handful of Victor’s shoulder and pulls him in to purr into his ear. “Let’s celebrate.”

Victor is about to shake him off until the last bit, which sets his body on absolute fire. The hot breath on his ear, the velvet tone, and what does that _mean_? “I thought we just did,” Victor chuckles, trying to be nonchalant even though he feels like Roman has just felt him up in public. 

“The bodies,” Roman clarifies. He saunters over to them, kicks irreverently at a limp ankle, and makes his “wrap it up” hand gesture. “Do you just want to deface them as usual?” He looks bored by the idea of that. 

“How about,” Victor suggests in a low rumble as he exits the booth with more of a stagger than he was expecting, “I carve my real name into her tongue.” He looms over India’s body, thinking about the sound of her body closing around the hilt of the knife.

“That’s not much room,” Roman says doubtfully. 

“I’m gonna rip it out first,” Victor snorts.

Roman’s eyebrows shoot up. “Ah.” His eyes crinkle as he gives Victor that manic smile. 

It’s a nasty piece of work, in more ways than one. Victor’s halfway up to his elbows in blood by the time India’s tongue is heavy and wet in his hand. The carving is less fun when the tongue isn’t actively bleeding or trying to scream, but it’s still therapeutic, meditative, to focus all of himself on one meticulous thing like this. 

Victor lays her tongue across her eyes, and looks down at it for a long minute or two, memorizing. It’s not quite long enough to cover them both; one of her half-open dark eyes glares up at him. Roman pushes him aside to take a picture with his phone, beaming. The eye glows red in the automatic flash, which makes Roman swear, but Victor makes him keep the picture. He looks up at Roman with a savage, satisfied grin, and Roman looks _hungry_. Victor suddenly has to clear his throat. 

“Gotta take a leak,” he mutters, and Roman grabs him by the arm. 

“Let’s go upstairs,” Roman says, leaning in. “It’s cleaner.” He smells amazing—the natural, musky kind of amazing rather than the expensive kind—and it lights up the well-used part of Victor’s brain dedicated to fantasizing about fucking his boss. 

Victor shrugs and lets Roman tow him up to the loft above the club. Victor darts into the guest bathroom and has his hand down his pants before he’s even shut the door. Christ, it’s been a while since he went that long after a murder without jacking off. He’s so fucking wound up that it only takes a minute or two before he’s shuddering head to toe, thighs clamped together while he grinds against his hand. His mouth is open in a silent howl. 

“Victor?” Roman’s voice comes from behind the door. “Are you okay?”

Victor leaps away from the door like it’s suddenly white hot, and Roman just bursts in. They stand there looking at each other for a very long moment. There’s really nothing Victor can do about the fact that his hand is still in his pants. Taking it out covered in come would be even more incriminating.

Roman turns deliberately and locks the door. When he faces Victor again, the look on his face is positively predatory. “Fucking _fuck_ , Victor,” he says hoarsely. He advances slowly, and Victor’s breathing quickens. Roman walks him back up against the sink and leans in like he’s going to kiss him. But he doesn’t. “Do you have any idea what watching you work does to me?” he growls. Victor’s throat whines without his permission. “It’s beautiful. You’re an artist.” Roman leans in to lick at his cheek, and savors the taste of what Victor assumes is blood. “Anyone can kill. But you, you make it something else _entirely_.”

Roman kisses him with violent enthusiasm, and Victor can’t do anything but kiss him back, moaning deep in his chest. He grabs a handful of Roman’s hair and pulls, biting at his lips. He whines when Roman pulls back. 

“I want to fuck you, Victor,” Roman purrs against his lips. Victor melts at the sound of his name in his mouth. “Surely just rubbing off wasn’t enough after all that.” Roman circles a hand around Victor’s wrist and pulls it out of his pants. “Ew,” he says, wrinkling his nose even as he grins. “Open up.”

Victor opens his mouth and whimpers when Roman slips his own sticky fingers in his mouth without breaking eye contact. The taste of come mixes with the blood still caked between his fingers, and it’s the horniest thing he’s ever tasted in his life. 

Roman presses closer, nudging his legs open, and Victor has to gulp in air like a beached whale when his hard dick presses between his legs. “Yes, Roman,” he gasps, the words barely intelligible. Roman releases his wrist and Victor pulls his fingers out of his own mouth. “Please, fuck.”

Roman grins and wrenches Victor’s open pants down his thighs. He cups Victor’s crotch, and finds his boxers absolutely soaked. “Disgusting,” Roman croons. “Nasty boy.” He grabs Victor and manhandles him around to face the sink. Victor sees himself in the mirror, and he looks like a mess, flushed and panting with his mouth open and wet. Then Roman shoves him over the vanity and presses his shoulder into the countertop.

“I’m going to make you come so hard you won’t _need_ three bathroom breaks to get through the night,” Roman promises, grinning, and Victor hears his zipper. He whines: is Roman going to fuck him without even letting Victor see him?

Roman seizes the back of Victor’s neck when he tries to look back, and forces him to make eye contact with himself in the mirror. “Ah, ah, ah,” he chides. He leans in over Victor until he can look him in his reflection’s eye. “Back door or front door?”

Victor groans. “Front, fuck, please.”

Roman doesn’t let go of his neck before he’s rutting his cock between Victor’s legs, against his soaking crotch. He moans extravagantly. “Fuck, Victor,” he says.

“I thought you were gonna fuck her,” Victor rasps. He arches his back in pleasure, tipping his ass up to change the angle of Roman’s grinding.

Roman laughs. “Sativa? Ugh. No, I just thought I’d exploit the interest.” Victor gives Roman a skeptical look in the mirror. Roman glares at him and pushes in without warning. 

Victor moans without meaning to, loud and deep in his pleasure-slack throat. He’s still hot and shuddering with the aftershocks of a strong orgasm, and Roman’s _big_ , and Victor convulses with pleasure around him. Roman chuckles above him, his hands at Victor’s hips like he’s about to fucking plow him. Victor wants him to.

“I can’t believe—actually, I _can_ believe you get off to that.” Roman growls in his ear, a smug grin on his face. “I can’t believe I found someone so fucking depraved.” 

Victor, teeth bared with defiance and pleasure, just clenches around Roman in response. Roman moans loud in his ear. He presses Victor down against the counter and straightens a little. He pulls out slowly, and Victor lets out a rattling sigh. “Boss,” he starts. 

Roman doesn’t wait for him to finish. He slams into him, smashing Victor’s hips into the counter. Victor wails, high and hoarse and agonized. 

Roman fucks him hard and fast and never lets Victor straighten or look back, hand still hard around the back of his neck or pressed between his shoulder blades. He fucks him to an almost painfully intense second orgasm, and doesn’t stop until Victor’s whining weakly into the sink with each rough thrust. Only then does Roman give him a few last thrusts, the most brutal yet, and he throws back his head with a, “Yes, Victor, fuuuuuck.”

The two of them panting is the only sound for a long minute or two. Roman finally pulls out and Victor squirms as he feels Roman’s come ooze back out of him. 

“No condom?” Victor croaks, a smile in his voice. 

“Why would you need one?” Roman challenges, and pulls him upright by the throat. He presses Victor’s body against his, back to front. “You’re _mine_ , Mister Zsasz.”

Victor shrugs. “Can still get pregnant, Mister Sionis,” he chuckles.

Roman stiffens. “ _What?_ ” he hisses. 

Victor croaks out a laugh. “I’m just fucking with you. I haven’t had the plumbing for twenty years.”

Roman shoves him against the sink. “Fucking asshole.”

Victor turns and grins at him. “That’s the problem. You didn’t.”


End file.
